Work Text:
“Last thing on the list is the meat, and then we’re done.”
“Finally, we’ve been here for hours.”
“It’s been forty-five minutes,” Robby corrects, checking his watch.
“Like I said, hours.”
Robby rolls his eyes, grabs the cart, leads the way. It isn’t until they pass the baking aisle that he remembers that he told the girls he’d make brownies for Thursday’s girls' night. Mentally checks the pantry. Shit, he needs flour. And chocolate chips. And brown sugar. And he thinks they might be out of cocoa powder, too. Stops, at the mouth of the aisle. Robby takes two steps before he clocks that Dennis isn’t with him anymore. Walks backwards until he’s next to him again. Asks with his eyes why he stopped.
“I need brownie stuff.”
“Girls' night?”
“Girls' night.”
“I’ll go grab the meat and meet you back here.”
Dennis doesn’t reply with words, just kisses his cheek. Loves how the tips of his ears go a little red, even after months of being together. Is tempted, as Robby walks away, to smack his ass. But he thinks he might actually give him an MI if he does, so he doesn’t. He does, however, shamelessly watch him walk away. When he turns to enter the aisle, there’s an old woman there, looking at the flour. She raises an eyebrow, eye flickering to where Robby just was and back as if to tell him I saw that. Feels his own face go red, then even redder when she laughs at his reaction.
She ambles off, and he takes her place. Looks at all the options for flour. Settles on the store brand all-purpose. Because he loves his friends, but he still can’t shake his upbringing. Why pay for the brand name when it’s the same stuff in the bag anyway. Does the same for the brown sugar. Gets the good cocoa, though, because in a brownie that matters. Grabs the good chocolate chips, too. Pauses, hand hovering over the mint chips. The girls love mint chocolate stuff, he could make special brownies. Or make two batches, one regular and one mint chocolate. Lord knows the leftovers will get eaten. Has just grabbed a bag when he hears it.
“Well, look who it is. Denny, long time no see.”
Denny. No one calls him that but. No, no, no. Please, no. Feels his whole body tense, his hands tightening enough his finger almost punches a hole through the side of the flour bag. Doesn’t turn to look. Because if he doesn’t look, then this isn’t really happening. If he doesn’t move, he won’t be able to see him. Not that that ever worked in the past, but maybe this time will be different. Inhales, feels the air get trapped. Goes in, doesn’t come out. Feels his chest get tight, too tight. Can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
“Come on, not even gonna say hi.”
Still doesn’t look away. Stares ahead at the array of chocolate chips in front of him, like they might save him. Like if he keeps his eyes on them, he can pretend this isn’t happening. Feels the air shift as he, Philip his name is Philip, moves closer. Wants to take a step back, doesn’t. Don’t act scared, that’ll only make him angry. Stands his ground, clings harder to the ingredients in his hand. Hopes that’ll cover up the way his hands are shaking. Isn’t sure it works. But he tries. He still can’t breathe.
“Not even gonna look at me?”
No, he’s not. He’s not gonna look at him. Because looking means acknowledging, and he’s trying very hard not to do that right now. Pretends he doesn’t hear him. Pretends he doesn’t know that the shift in his breathing means he’s getting pissed. Forces himself to stand still, eyes still on the chocolate chips. Hears the shifting of feet. Forces himself not to brace, even though he knows he probably should. Knows from past experience that the punches hurt less if he does. Also knows that it only makes him angrier. Acting, being, scared always makes him angrier.
“How have you been, Denny? It’s been a while. We should catch up. Reminisce. Remember all the fun we had?”
Fun. Right. That’s one word for it. Not the word he’d use. But then, Philip never did care much for his opinion on, well, anything. So he supposes it doesn’t much matter what word he’d use. Can think of a few, not that he’ll say them. Doesn’t want to make this any worse than it is. Knows ignoring him is already bad enough. Isn’t going to throw logs on the fire. Not here, not now. Pays no mind to the increase of heat at his side. Philip’s stepped closer. Focuses on trying to breathe. It doesn’t work.
Don’t flinch, don’t step back. Don’t act scared, it won’t be as bad if you don’t act scared.
“Dennis? What’s going on?”
Robby. That’s Robby. Can take a breath again because Robby’s here. Philip takes a step back, looks to Robby. Dennis does too. Because he feels lost. A ship out at sea in a storm. Unmoored, tossed about. Thrown around by a force he has no control over. Powerless to stop it. Needs a light to guide him home to safer waters. Needs help back to the harbor before he ends up stuck out here forever. Takes another breath. In and out, in and out. Breathes because Robby’s back and he can.
Philip drags his eyes up and down Robby. And Dennis doesn’t miss the way Robby stands to his full height. Straightens his spine, pulls back his shoulders. It’s an intimidating image. Robby has a habit of trying to make himself smaller. Hunches his shoulders, bends his knees when talking to people so he’s at eye level. Doesn’t do that now, stands at his full six-foot-one-inch height. Crosses his arms over his chest. For half a second, he thinks Philip is going to press the issue. Is going to try to start a fight with Robby right here in the baking aisle of Giant Eagle’s. Doesn’t, thankfully. Walks away instead. Turns out he has some sense after all. Wonder when he got that.
“Who was that?”
“No one,” Dennis answers, watching Philip’s retreating back, and he hates the way his voice sounds, all watery and shaky.
“Dennis.”
“He was no one.”
“Dennis.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re shaking.”
And yes, he is. He knows he is. Has been, since he first heard Philip’s voice. Hates it. The way the body remembers. Would be easier if it didn’t. Because then maybe he wouldn’t be standing here trembling, wouldn’t be trying to remind himself that he’s safe. That everything’s fine. Wouldn’t have Robby looking at him like he is. Worry and concern on his face, brow furrowed. Like he’s trying to make a diagnosis without having all the imaging back yet. Hates that too. Wants him to stop looking at him like he’s something he needs to fix. A problem he needs to solve.
“Dennis.”
“It’s nothing. Get everything?” He asks, dumping the baking stuff into the cart.
“Did I, yeah, I did.”
“Good. Let’s go then.”
“Dennis.”
“Leave it, Robby. It’s fine.”
Turns on his heel, starts walking towards the registers. Doesn’t even look to see if Robby’s following. Knows he will be. Just wants to leave. Needs to be not here right now. Needs to be at home. Needs to be somewhere his mind knows is safe. Where everything smells like him and Robby. Feels too exposed here, doesn’t like it. Helps Robby unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. Helps the clerk bag, helps Robby load everything into the car. Climbs into the passenger seat. Shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket to hide the fact that they’re still shaking. Because it’s fine. He was just caught off guard, but it’s fine. Everything’s fine.
And he’s sure the trembling will stop any second now.
***
It doesn’t.
Robby drives, one hand on Dennis’ thigh the whole time. Dennis stares out the window, watches without absorbing any of it. Swears the drive only takes thirty seconds, even though the clock on the car radio tells him it took eleven minutes. Hefts the bags out of the trunk, so they only have to make one trip. Carries them into the house. Helps Robby put everything away. Can feel his eyes on him the whole time, and he can’t help but think he’s cataloging symptoms. Like the fact he hasn’t spoken since the store. Like the fact that his hands are still shaking.
And it’s not just his hands, either. Every so often, his whole body is overtaken by a shiver, like he’s cold. But he isn’t cold. He doesn’t think he is, at least. Maybe he is. He doesn’t know. Kinda can’t feel anything at all, if he’s honest. Which, he should probably be more worried about. But he can’t bring himself to care about it. Knows, somewhere in his mind, that he should, but he just, doesn’t. Sits on the couch after the groceries are away. Stares at the TV, even though it isn’t on. Hears Robby in the kitchen, wonders idly what he’s doing. Doesn’t ask.
“Here, Dennis, I made you cocoa.”
“Not thirsty.”
“Hold it anyway, please.”
Takes it because Robby wants him to. Feels the warmth soak into his hands. Looks down at it. The top ripples, every time his hand quivers. Reminds him of the cup in Jurassic Park. The one that shakes because the T-Rex is coming. Wonders if that’s what Philip is, the T-Rex coming to eat him. Devour him whole. No, no, Philip is more like the Raptors, he thinks. Sneaky and vicious. Cornering him when he’s alone, only to flee when it’s clear he can’t win the fight. The monster who pops up just to ruin the day before fading into the background again. Until he comes back, that is. Because the aptors always come back. Always pop out of the bushes at the worst possible time. Clever girl indeed.
Feels the couch dip. Robby’s next to him now. He has a cup of coffee in his hand. It smells good, reminds him he has cocoa. Lifts the mug to his mouth. His hands are still quaking, and he’s about to give up on taking a sip when Robby reaches out with one hand to steady it. Helps him take a sip. It’s good. He made it the good way, the way his Bubbe used to do it. Warmth spreads from his chest outwards. Like someone lit a fire next to his heart. It’s nice.
“We’re at home,” Robby says, voice low, “It’s Saturday. My name is Michael Robinavitch, you’re Dennis Whitaker.”
Dennis nods, takes another sip of cocoa with assistance. Blinks, looks around the room. Realizes the sun has set. Wonders how long he’s been sitting here. Too long. It was five when they got home. Probably five thirty by the time they got everything put away. The sun's down, which means it’s at least seven thirty, maybe even a little after. Hadn’t realized he’d been sitting there that long. Shakes his head, looks over at Robby. Offers him a small smile. He returns it, but Dennis can see that it’s strained around the edges. Yeah, he can’t blame him for that. Knows if Robby sat on the couch and stared at nothing for two hours, he’d be equally as concerned.
“Thank you, for the cocoa.”
“Any time.”
“I’m sorry, about,” he flops one hand towards himself, as if to say all of me.
Robby makes a face, the one he makes whenever Dennis says something self-deprecating. Doesn’t acknowledge what Dennis said, only settles further into the sofa. Takes a sip of his coffee. Lifts one arm, holds it in the air. Waits for Dennis to slide under it, before lowering it to wrap around him. Snuggles into his side, drinks his cocoa. Because Robby went through the trouble of making it. Not only making it, but making it the way his Bubbe used to, when he was little. The secret way that Robby won’t teach him, no matter how much he begs. Finishes it quickly, because the warmth it spreads through him is nice. Grounding, which he supposes was probably the point. Sets his mug on the coffee table.
Gets dragged to lie between Robby’s legs when he finishes his coffee. Ends up half between his legs, half on his chest, Robby leaning back against the arm of the couch. Lays his ear over Robby’s heart, listens to the glub-glub of it. Decides that’s more grounding than cocoa could ever be. Taps out the beat on Robby’s side with his pointer finger, feels him snort a laugh. Hides a smile in his shirt, inhales hard. Sandalwood and cinnamon from his soap, the underlying scent of hand sanitizer that seems to follow him around no matter what. Home. He smells like home.
“Who was he?” Robby asks, voice so low he barely catches it.
“No one important,” he tries to deflect because he really doesn’t want to do this right now.
Isn’t ready to open that particular vein. Doesn’t want to rip open that old wound. Knows if he does, it’ll bleed and bleed and bleed. Will stain the couch and the floor, and Robby’s old sweatshirt that Dennis didn’t notice him change into, and he doesn’t want that. Really doesn’t want to do this today. Or ever. Yeah, never sounds good. Knows that isn’t realistic. Knows there’s no way Robby is going to let this go. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to things that upset Dennis. Is always wanting to talk about it, ironic given Robby has never talked about an emotion he’s felt ever in his life.
“Dennis.”
He’s using one of his attending voices now. The one that means I expect you to answer this question because I’m the one asking it. He doesn’t use them at home often. Because they agreed it was better to keep Robby and Dr. Robinavitch separate. Better for their relationship if Dr. Robinavitch stayed at the hospital and Robby was the one who came home with Dennis every night. Can only think of one other time Robby’s used an attending voice on him. When his Ma called him out of the blue, and Robby found him hyperventilating in the bathroom two hours later, unable to answer what was wrong. It’d snapped him out of his panic enough to answer, back then.
“His name is Philip.”
“And Philip is…” Robby trails off, leaving a gap for Dennis to fill.
“My ex. He’s my ex.”
Robby doesn’t answer with words, but he does nod like that was the answer he was expecting. He doesn’t push either, like Dennis thinks he will. Kinda wishes he would. Thinks maybe it’d be easier to say if Robby was poking and prodding. But he doesn’t. Just holds him to his front, waits for him to say what he’s going to say. Strokes a palm up and down his back. Occasionally pops it up to run through his hair. But doesn’t prob, doesn’t ask him to elaborate. Trusts that he will, given the time.
Realizes that he wants to. Didn’t think he would ever get to a point where he’d want to talk about Philip. But he finds, here, being held by Robby, he wants to. Wants to open that vein and let it bleed and bleed and bleed because he knows, he knows Robby is excellent at stitches. Knows that he can let it all out because Robby will be able to help put him back together when it’s all over. Can bleed and bleed and bleed and it’s fine because Robby’s a doctor and he’s never shied away from a bit of blood before. Knows he won’t be put off by whatever comes out of Dennis, if he claws that wound open again.
“It wasn’t always bad. He was sweet, at first.”
Because he had been, at first. Had been everything Dennis had always wanted in a partner. Caring and attentive. Paid attention when he talked, treated him like what he had to say mattered. After a life of being ignored, it was addicting, having someone who just, cared. Who didn’t treat him like his very existence was an inconvenience, an annoyance.
“He changed, after a while. Started controlling me. Hated when I talked to other people. Hated that I was in med school. He, he tried to sabotage me so I’d fail.”
That had been the final straw, the thing that made him finally leave. Had spent his last two hundred dollars on the anatomy textbook he needed. Had come home from class to find it gone. Philip had admitted to him that he took it, said there was no getting it back. So you might as well give up on this silly little dream of yours. Remembers never feeling that pissed before in his life. Packed a bag and stormed out of their apartment, the one that only Philip’s name was on. Left even though he knew he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Left because he couldn’t stay with someone who would do that, who would try to ruin the one thing he’s fought so hard for. His education.
“He, did other stuff too.”
Keeps it vague, mostly because he’s embarrassed. Embarrassed that he didn’t leave the first time Philip escalated from faint annoyance to full-on screaming. Doesn’t even remember what set him off now, but knowing Phil, it was probably something stupid. Even more embarrassed that he didn’t leave the first time he got physical, the first time he went to class with bruises hidden under his clothes. Because Phil thought he was flirting with the barista when they went to get coffee. He hadn’t been, had only asked him to leave room for creamer. Apparently, that had been a come-on, somehow.
Is embarrassed it ever got as bad as it did. But like his Ma used to say, you can’t see the forest for the trees. Didn’t realize that things were that bad because he was too close to it. Made excuses to himself. If I hadn’t made him mad, he wouldn’t have... he didn’t mean it, he was just upset... he was just trying to help me, he didn’t mean to hit me that hard… next time I’ll do better, and he won’t have to… It wasn’t until the textbook incident that Dennis saw Philip for what he was. An abusive, manipulative asshole. Left that day and never looked back. Not even when it meant sleeping in shelters, and the eighth floor, once he found it.
“He hit you,” and it isn’t a question, just a statement of fact, spoken bluntly in that way that only Robby can.
“Yeah. Sometimes, but it-”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You were about to try to justify what he did to you. Don’t do that.”
He had been about to do just that. Has no idea what the end of his sentence was going to be, if he’s honest. Isn’t sure where he was going with it. Thinks maybe it was, but it was my fault. Or maybe, but it could have been worse. Maybe both, maybe neither. Has no clue. Supposes it doesn’t matter now either way.
“There’s no justification for it. None.”
“But sometimes I-”
“No, listen to me. Imagine you were at work and someone came in. Said their partner was hitting them, but that blank. And fill in that blank with any of the things you’re thinking right now. What would you do?”
He’d help them any way he could. He’d get them in touch with Kiara. Get them access to as many resources as he could. Would make sure they felt safe, secure. Would treat their wounds. Would call in Caleb for a consult to help with the wounds he can’t fix, the ones he can’t see. He’d move heaven and hell to ensure they were okay, because he knows what it’s like to be in that situation. Knows what it’s like to be in it without all the help and wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, let alone someone scared and alone in the ED.
“I’d tell them it isn’t their fault, and I’d help them.”
“And if it isn’t their fault, then it wasn’t yours either.”
And Dennis knows that. He does, he swears he does. Knows it wasn’t ever his fault. Knows he never did anything wrong. Never did anything to earn the way Philip treated him, what he did to him, despite what Philip used to say. He knows that. He does. But it’s nice to hear someone else say it. To have someone else put it into words, that it wasn’t his fault. That he didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t bring it on himself. That Philip wasn’t some divine punishment for sins he doesn’t remember committing. That he didn’t deserve it simply for being who he is.
Nods, because he knows if he tries to talk right now, he’s going to start sobbing, and he doesn’t want to. Has opened the wound enough, for tonight. Maybe someday he’ll tell him more. Will tell him the grittier details, instead of just the broad strokes. Will tell him about the torn ligaments in his shoulder, the ones that didn’t heal right. The ones that always tell him when it’s about to storm because it aches. Will tell him about every bruise and laceration, every hit he took. About every time, no was the opening to a negotiation instead of an answer. Maybe someday he’ll tell him about all of it. But not tonight.
“Thank you, for telling me,” Robby whispers.
“Thank you for listening,” thank you for stitching me closed, he wants to say, but doesn’t.
“I always will. Whenever you want to talk about it, about anything.”
“I might take you up on that, someday. But not today.”
“Not today,” Robby agrees, bonks their temples together, “Cocoa?”
“Cocoa.”
And he damn near cries when Robby shows him how to make it the way his Bubbe taught him.